Land of the Free
by Reigning Rats
Summary: It was just another war, but one with no sense of evil and good and a slew of unlikely alliances. M for violence, strong language, and adult themes. Russia/America. Various other pairings later.
1. Chapter 1

Everything had gone right. They had achieved world peace. Every nation got along just fine and dandy. Global problems were tackled immediately and world conferences actually became fruitful. Global warming was curbed, population inflation leveled off, average lifespans went up, and the economy flourished.

Then it all got fucked up.

He didn't know how it happened. No one knew how it happened. It just. . . Did. That was the weird part. It just happened. Every war before, there was something leading up to it. There was a crescendo then the climax: war. This time. . . This time it had been different. There had been a sweet, light melody floating through the air and then the war drums began to beat so suddenly, so furiously.

How had it come to this? That's what he wondered, and he never stopped wondering about it. Even as he leveled his gun, set his sights on an enemy solider and fired. He never stopped. Even as he swiftly turned and popped off another two shots before hiding behind the concrete wall again, he never stopped thinking about it.

"Fuck it all," he hissed, darting back out and cutting down another two.

His radio, clipped tightly to his waistband, sputtered to life, "_Sir! We've successfully trapped the enemy forces at the coast. Do you copy? Over."_

He grabbed at the offending plastic device and pushed the side button before he seethed, "Good, now get those fuckers off my coast! Over."

"_Yes, sir! Over and out._"

"Who would've thought."

He snorted, "No fucking shit."

He didn't smile anymore. There was no reason to smile. Germany had been dissolved, dying just as his country did. The Baltics had succumbed to the war, fading out before completely drifting off. The Nordics were holding their own, Japan as well. So many of the others, so many of the smaller nations, had ceased to exist. They were memories in textbooks, stories citizens of conquered nations would whisper about.

"Fuck it all," he said dryly, leaning around the corner again to knock off another soldier.

He gave his partner a wave, beckoning the other to follow as he slunk out the door and into the rubble and debris of a once proudly shimmering skyscraper. He hid behind another wall, his partner coming up beside him as a rain of bullets hailed down. He ignored the ache in his chest, popping up to fire off another couple shots before ducking again. His gun was empty.

With a whispered curse, he tossed the Baretta away and pulled out an MSAW. He was running out of guns and ammunition. There was only so much his coat and ammunition bag could hold. Without a moment's hesitation, he loaded the shot gun, only to be deterred as he coughed into his hand. The black leather was stained red.

"Shit," he said dryly, "They're fighting fucking hard."

"Such a potty mouth," he partner chided smoothly, shooting for a moment before settling back again.

He looked at his partner, only to meet the others gaze as they just sat there and stared at one another. After years of intensive fighting, words were no longer needed between them. It was nearly sickening just how close a bond they had acquired. Beggers couldn't be choosers when a war was being raged on nearly all fronts.

_I can't believe this._

_ You are naive, then._

_ Fuck you. I'm getting sick of hiding._

_ Then let us not hide anymore._

It wasn't a smile that graced his lips. That habit had long ago been abandoned. No, it was not a smile. It was a twisted, malicious smirk, tugging devilishly on just one side of his lips as his eyes flashed. There was no more smiling, no more laughing, least, not from him. That part of him was dead.

"Let's fuck shit up."

"Da, let's, America."

They both stood, guns poised as they advanced forward with the short sighted intent of driving the British-French forces off American soil. The soldiers shot at the two nations. Sure, they were taking hits and it hurt like hell, but, to them, it was child's play. They smiled - no, they grinned - sadistically and pushed onward. The wounds were already healing, flesh knitting together, even as they were doused in a rain of lead.

"Home of the brave, _motherfucker__s_!"

--

**A/N:** Brutal abuse of the multiple purpose F word. You know you love it, and I always fantasize about Alfred being a rather foul mouthed kinda guy. Suiting, considering I see small children in America cursing all the time. Anyway, excuse any grammar or spelling errors, my English isn't all that good and I tried to fix the errors myself. May continue on with it, who knows. And yes, it was intended to be Russia/America. Don't laugh, prz. Enjoy, I suppose. Review, whatever. Do whatever you damn well please.


	2. Chapter 2

"How're things going with China and Europe?" America asked casually.

He was leisurely cleaning a 92FS, making sure the metal gleamed and the gun looked spotless. The gun was handled with such tenderness while a sort of nostalgia worked its way across his face. Violent conflict was not something foreign to the nation. He had been involved in too many wars, too many skirmishes, too many fights. It had become a dull comfort. Holding a gun, leveling the sight, pulling the trigger. For America, there was nothing better.

Russia was tending to his M14 almost as lovingly - if not mechanically. A hand slipped across the barrel, sliding easily across the cool, dark metal before it came to rest across the trigger. His violet gaze was leveled at America after a moment. Just staring. Just studying. There was a soft blankness behind the gaze before an all too familiar quirk of the lips left Russia looking childishly frightening. The look no longer unsettled America. He had grown used to it.

"I can assure you, comrade, he is not fairing well."

America snorted and rolled his shoulders, trying to will away the tension lingering there as he hunched further over the unloaded pistol, "'S 'cause North Korea is helping you."

Their eyes met. One dull and dark, the other bright and playful. Any other time, America would have laughed at the irony. He could find no will nor humor to laugh now, though. There was only a bitter hatred towards those he had once considered friends. In the hypnotic pull of World War III, he had found his friends to be enemies and enemies to be friends. It was horrendously twisted and made his stomach churn with the familiar ache of betrayal.

The pair were seated in a seedy hotel in Iowa, weaponry laid out against the wall beside the door and spread out across the mattress. After the initial shock of the east shore bombings, the American government officials had been easily moved to the Midwest to be tucked away in a sheltered small town. The move had been relatively smooth but he still ached to be in D.C. and wander the streets to gaze at the monuments.

America set the pistol down before flopping back with hands folded behind his head and one leg tucked beneath himself. His voice came out soft, almost gentle in the quiet of the hotel room. "How'd this happen?"

It was Russia's turn to shrug as he continued smiling, "It was to be expected. Nations are prone to war, it is the nature of things."

Another snort from the American as he turned his head towards the white wash walls and just stared. And stared. And _stared_. When he spoke again, the tone had changed, shifting back to the normal arrogant air that always seemed to hang upon his words, "What the fuck ever. More important question - how'd France and England team up? Talk about weird."

"How did we team up?"

The reply had been automatic on Russia's part. He set the rifle aside and stood from his chair before lightly pattering over and sitting on the edge of the bed. A prodding finger urged America to roll over and stop hogging the bed. Grudgingly and with a whine of protest, the nation complied and rolled onto his side, back facing Russia. The larger nation reclined against the head board, ankles crossed and hands folded in his lap, as he looked over at his partner with a sort of sick fondness.

He could feel the stare and didn't need to turn over to see it. The feeling was tangible. "Stop staring, asshole."

"Ah, forgive me, America." The words were insincere. "I was merely admiring the scar upon your back."

His hand reached up out of reflex, shielding the angry, red mark near the top of his spine from view as he flipped onto his back and pinned Russia with a sour look. The position didn't feel right. His hand was pinned behind his back and limbs pulled tight against his sides to provide more room on the narrow bed. More glaring then he whined again before turning to the side and abandoning his vanity.

"Whatever," he mumbled in return.

A silence stretched between the two, not wholly uncomfortable.

"This is so fucked up."

"Da."

"None of this should've happened."

"I agree, America."

"No, you don't."

"That's true."

A wave of rage skittered across his consciousness as he sat up and twisted his body to stare at the Russian. There was a hard edge to his gaze, blue eyes darkening as he hissed out a growl. The emotion was fleeting at best and soon fled. In its wake, a wave of emptiness and pain cried out. He could feel his people screaming in fury and agony. Like claws scratching at his body, they tore and _tore _at his mind with the unrelenting force of a wild beast scrambling for purchase. This was something new for him. After all, no one had tried to invade his homeland before.

"Don't know why I trust you," America griped, voice tight and tense. His shoulders were squared, limbs stiff, as he tried to draw himself up to look more imposing. "So fuckin' stupid."

Russia dipped his head, eyes slipping shut as he responded, "It is. I am not one to trust. I will turn on you as soon as my interests are fulfilled."

The confession did not surprise America. They had already been over it before. Both nations agreed that once they each had what they wanted that they would turn on one another. Words hadn't been necessary at the time, but they gave a finality to the promise. At times, America found himself wondering if England and France had the same sort of understanding. He strongly believed they did.

Before more conversation could carry on, a quake shook the hotel and the vibrations snaked up the wood work of the bed. Neither nation seemed fazed by the disturbance as a darker quiet settled over the two. Wordlessly, Russia stood and grabbed his rifle, shot gun, and various others before calmly standing at the door. America was more sluggish to follow, having to cough once more and wipe the blood on the bed sheets before arming himself.

"Europeans?" Russia questioned as he held open the door.

America shook his head and squared his jaw, "No. Mexico. Last I heard, Venezuela and Cuba were failing against her."

-- --

While the fighting in New York and Boston had been relatively conventional for inner city warfare, the one raging in San Antonio wasn't as chaotically ordered. For some time, America had always figured Mexico as an easy foe, one that could be toppled quickly. The nation was proving herself to be quite the spit fire.

Once more, America found himself sitting beside Russia as they hid from the Mexican soldiers and only darted out to fire once or twice before slinking back once more. The enemy soldiers were hidden well. His own men, mixed with some of Russia's relief troops, were also hidden amongst the rubble. Homemade bombs and England's military aid had leveled the city just days ago.

America grit his teeth, grinding them. "What the fuck!" he spat, popping up and shooting once more. A sick sense of satisfaction crept up as he watched the spray of red. "South of the border, wetbacks!"

A smile tugged at the edges of Russia's mouth. He wasn't sure what a wetback was, but he safely assumed it was nothing short of insulting. He appeared from the concrete barrier and fired into the debris surrounding. Another shower of red as another enemy soldier fell. There was nothing sick about Russia's satisfaction, only familiarity.

A curse brought him from the lazy, pleasant haze of killing. He was a little startled to look over and see America clutching at his shoulder. The blood looked more like wet paint to Russia. It languidly rolled out from between America's fingers, slipping down the material of his bomber jacket to pool on the crotch of his jeans. There were more hisses and cusses from the nation. He pulled his hand away once the wound had healed itself.

"You make yourself an easy target," Russia chided, clicking his tongue and rising to shoot. Another two dead, then he ducked back down. "No marks on me, da?"

America rolled his eyes, baleful smile prying at his lips, "Yea, yea. Shut the fuck up and shoot some more."

There was a glint in Russia's eyes as he set the pistol on the ground and reached around to the small pack tucked securely against his side. "I will do one better."

The hand pulled back to reveal an incendiary grenade. Russia pulled the pin with his teeth, stood, and threw the small device. There was a moment's pause then the screams and pained cries of men rang out. The sound was so gratifying, America couldn't hide his sadistic grin. When he looked over, he saw that Russia was wearing a smile akin to his own.

"I fuckin' love you," America joked. His voice was devoid of humor, though. The laugh that followed was more of a bark.

"Then a show of your appreciation is in order, da?"

The response from America was immediate if not seemingly trained. He twisted and let his weight drag him to the side as he slung himself across Russia's lap. Chests flush, he arched his back and stared down at the other nation. He growled as a hand snaked to the back of Russia's skull and yanked roughly upon the tender hairs near the base of his skull. The other man hissed and wrapped his arms possessively around America's waist.

America moved quickly, pressing the muzzle of his gun to the underside of Russia's jaw as he leaned forward and captured the larger nation's lips with his own. The metal was hot. The kiss was harsh. It was not loving or endearing. It was not caring nor gentle nor any semblance of anything nice one could be compelled to call a kiss.

The kiss was rough. Their teeth clinked against one another and tongues darted out to tangle and battle for dominance in one anothers mouths. There was no clear cut victor, only two men bearing down upon each other in savage need. It as simple and searing.

Then it ended. America pulled himself free gracelessly and reloaded his pistol before resuming the old routine. Stand. Shoot. Hide. Stand. Shoot. Hide. Russia followed suit. His movements were more fluid, natural.

America holstered his 92FS and pulled free the M1911 at his hip before standing in a crouch and beckoning Russia to follow as they traveled farther into the front lines. The nation was not hesitant to follow. As they quickly slunk forward, he could not help it as his gaze settled upon America's rear. With an up turn of the lips, he smacked the flat side of his pistol against the American's bottom.

He got no answer till the two were seated behind another stone wall. America loaded his pistol and clicked off the safety before he turned to shoot. "Save the ass worshiping for later, lover boy. I'll ride you rough if you kill twenty more." His words were light and playful.

"Prepare to saddle up, cowboy," the Russian joked back.

The two stood and shot together before ducking behind the stone once more. Neither could hide the self indulgent smiles spreading across their features. Silently, Russia plucked another grenade from his pack. With seasoned aim, he threw it into a den of the enemy before darting back down as flames licked at the stone behind.

_ Fifteen more to go._

_--_

**A/N: **Uhhh. Originally, I wasn't going to continue this. Reviews, though only five, made me feel horridly guilty so I relented. This was written in, honestly, fifteen minutes. OTL``` I tried to fix the errors, please forgive if I missed anything. English doesnotequal my first language. Uh. Anyway. People seem curious about the whole British French team up thing. Will explain how that happened when I figure out myself and find a direction for the story. More violence, bad language, and a new dash of boy lovin'. Ftw? Blahblah, review, whatever. Don't care._  
_


	3. Chapter 3

All invading forces had been driven out and, now that the immediate danger to American soil had been effectively prevented, it was time for America's least favorite part of the whole war business: a meeting to decide their next move. He honestly hated the meetings, hated everyone attending them, hated the reason they even had to gather. In another time, he would have thrown the other countries out, called them nasty names, and wiped his hands of the whole business. With the other countries hungry to tear down his country, his ideals, his _essence_, America had no choice but to accept the help.

Even if it was misplaced and fleeting at best.

North Korea looked almost pensive as she stared down at the table top, seeing nothing and too far gone into her own thoughts to see America staring at her almost thoughtfully. Another time, another place, the two would have gladly gone at each others throats. America had been half expecting the Korean to join with England and France. Imagine his surprise when the woman curtly informed him she would be assisting and sending three divisions to Maine. He knew Russia had something to do with it. _Something_.

Russia always had _something_ to do with everything. America was, at times, absent minded and quite an ignorant asshole, which he rather prided himself on, but he wasn't fool enough to miss the obvious signs of his wartime lover's handiwork. The Baltics joining with them had been a given, though he had to admit having Belarus on the team wasn't exactly the _best_. Before the war, they hadn't exactly been on good terms.

North Korea and Cuba were Russia's doing as well. America had tapped a few of the Russian communication lines at the start of the war, ever paranoid and not rusting towards anyone. There had been open negotiations with Cuba, ones he did not like but could not deny were needed. Last thing he needed was an invasion in Florida. That would have just been icing on the _fucking_ cake.

To America's credit, he had lassoed two of his own closest allies to help out: Canada and Venezuela. At first, the pair had been reluctant to get involved but as the invading forces neared the Canadian border and some nations in South America joined with France, both had consented to fight along America. Out of necessity and some misplaced sense of obligation, Israel and Egypt had joined in on the fray but only after receiving promises of reinforcements as most of the Middle East threatened the two nations.

America couldn't deny he was at least a little pleased with how things were going. So far, they had been successful. Russia was holding firm in Europe and Asia. North Korea was effectively keeping her siblings from entering on the opposing side with extreme diplomatic pressuring. Israel and Egypt, though he would never admit to either, were keeping the other Middle Eastern nations preoccupied and effectively keeping the rather Anti-American nations from joining against their cause.

The American snorted.

Their _cause_.

What a joke.

He couldn't even recall how things had gotten so bad. Had anyone informed him that World War Three was looming just over the horizon, he would have out right laughed in their face, gave them a slap on the back, and dismissed the comment. He had been warned though, hadn't he?

Estonia's words were lost to him. America was no longer paying attention as he became engrossed in his own thoughts. It was readily becoming a habit.

America had been warned, but he had not laughed. It was for the simple fact that it had been _Germany_ of all people warning him. The man had looked utterly serious - then again, when _didn't_ Germany look serious? - and had leveled America with a look. A look was all it took to convey the gravity of his words.

_There are tensions rising in Europe, America. War is upon us_, America mouthed, rehearsing the words soundlessly.

Germany had been right and now Germany was _gone_. Gone like so many of the others. He, and along with most of Europe, had fallen quickly. Nearly over night: gone. No more. _Dead_.

The thought made him sick. Already, so many of his friends had fallen to France and England. His stomach churned unpleasantly as he began to think about the pair. Really, who would have thought the old man and the frog would join hands for a common cause and be so god damned, fucking _effective_. All the quarrels before, all the fighting and the insults and the tensions and the _history_. None of it seemed to matter anymore.

He had to wonder; did history even matter anymore? They were carving out a new past, a new passage for the history books. Did the distant past make any difference now as they spilled their blood for a new, unknown cause? He supposed learning from the mistakes from centuries past was important, supposed that there were life lessons in the events of yesteryear.

The real question was, did any of them _care_ anymore?

This was not a war of follies and alliances, a war of justice and liberation, a war of ideologies and mind games. It wasn't a war of insecurities or a war of resources. It was a war for war's sake. It was bloodshed stemmed from the primal needs of their people to be the best, to be on top, to _dominate_. No, this was no noble war, it was an age old war of see who can claim the tippy-top of the mountain and stay there. A war of I'm better than you and if you disagree I'll shoot you in the face.

The idea made America smile.

"What are you thinking?" Russia asked coyly.

The man was smiling, leaning towards his new found ally and one hand finding its way to America's knee. The gesture roused the American from his thoughts. Of course Russia would notice him spacing. They were too similar for him not the notice _everything_. It felt like an invasion of America's privacy, like Russia knew everything about him and could wield that power effortlessly. As he looked over to the nation sitting beside him, looking so much like an innocent child about to tear him limb from limb, America could see that knowing smile.

Yes.

He and Russia were two of a kind. Peas in a pod. Thick as thieves. Ready to tear each other apart at the first sign of misgivings and fully prepared to mobilize troops should the barely there alliance suddenly fall threw. America had two divisions placed in Alaska and Oregon specifically for the task should it have ever come to that. He didn't doubt for a moment that Russia had his own men standing on the coast, just waiting for the green light: go.

Russia's hand began making its way up America's thigh, dragging across the thick fabric of his military trousers at a lazy pace. There would be no more mental musings, no more dark thoughts and useless thinking. There was only the here and now for America. Here, he was in a conference room, surrounded, mostly, by people he didn't like or that didn't like him. Now, there was a skilled hand working at the button to his pants and slipping leisurely below his waistband.

Yes, only the here and now.

Here smelled like lemon and cleaning supplies. It smelled like paperwork and leather, like politics and diplomacy. Now felt too hot. The window was open and the heat from midsummer was streaming in. He could taste the warmth, smell it, breathe it. It was nearly suffocating.

Here was Russia's hand, teasingly fondling him. Now was Russia staring absently at Estonia as the boy droned on about this, that, and the other thing, obviously not paying attention. Here had America's love-hate lover loosely gripping him and moving so _slow_. Now had America biting his lip and staring, eyes half lidded, at the wall as he tried to swallow any keening, whining noise of protests at Russia's inhuman teasing.

Somewhere, in the back of his mind, America was envisioning the times he and Russia had fallen into bed with one another. At first, it had been two men needing to find release, to rid themselves of the tension which mounted from being nations. Somewhere along the line, the affairs had become tentative, trembling steps towards something meaningful, something they both _feared_. When things went sour with the outbreak of war, their relationship had changed again.

When they found the time between battles to lay with one another, the affairs could hardly be justified as even sex. They didn't make love, god _no_, and they didn't have sex. They _fucked_ and there was no pleasant way of phrasing it. Limbs would lash out, hitting, and the blunt edges of nails would find flesh and drag and scratch and draw blood. Mouths would gasp and move silently, kissing, sucking, biting, making the other bleed. Thrusting, pounding, driving them both farther and farther from sanity as the war ebbed away and there was only a coil of raw hatred towards each other, towards the world, towards _themselves_.

America was remembering those times, the images helping him to control the need to buck into Russia's hand like a wanton whore. Faintly, in the back of his mind, a song was playing. A kid in the 49th Division had been playing it one night, drunk off his ass and staggering around as he slurred the chorus. At the time, America had snickered at just how befitting the lyrics were to he and Russia. The kid was Roger Danson, a private and fresh out of boot camp. He had half his head blown off by a high powered rifle in Manhattan.

Russia's hand went faster, dragging up and down and squeezing ever so gently, almost fondly. It was a mocking gesture, but America found himself uncaring towards the action as he shifted none too subtly and pressed his hips upward. Yes, he was Russia's little slut, his boy toy ally. America took comfort in self reassurance that Russia was just as much his slut and boy toy. They were each others play things; children dabbling in the arts of war and adult intimacy.

He could feel the end coming. The images playing through his mind and that hand working ever so methodically were bringing him close and a knot formed in his stomach, warm and yearning for release. Another minute or two and he would tumble over the edge while the others called for this and that, speaking of battle plans and war strategies.

"Hey, Al, are you okay?" Canada questioned quietly from beside him.

Canada, oh _Canada_. America could never bring himself to think ill of his brother. His ever faithful brother. Though his personality had been warped and twisted into something ugly and _rotting_, America smiled lazily at his brother, grunting as Russia increased his pace. He was trying to embarrass America before their allies, before his brother, but America would not relent. America never relented. He was _America_.

"Just great, Mattie," America nearly purred, catching himself as he released into Russia's hand.

America turned his gaze from Canada to North Korea who stood at the head of the table, beginning to unveil her own ideas and plans on their next move. Russia's hand retracted, wiping away the evidence of their under the table sins before folding them on his lap and leaning back with a self satisfied quirk of the lips. America redid the button to his pants and slouched under the table, hiding his neither regions further from view.

"Just wonderful, Mattie." America smiled, the edges curving upward softly.

**A/N: Uhhh, is it obvious I don't know where I'm going with this but obviously having a right real good time dicking around? Thought so. Anyway, not much to say about this. It's weird, I'm weird, makes sense. The song mentioned is Bruises and Bitemarks by Good with Grenades, I always think of some primal RussiaAmerica rutting whenever I heard to it. Sue me. Think that's about all I have to say. Enjoy, review, it's you life, do what you want. : D**


	4. Chapter 4

"_Europe. It's about time_," America mused.

"Stay focused, Al," Canada admonished quickly as his brother began to veer his jet to the right, breaking formation.

There was a groan over the static, "_You're no fun, Mattie. Come on, I haven't flown in ages_."

Canada said nothing, too over joyed at hearing some semblance of the old America coming through the intercom. He couldn't help the wry smile working its way to his lips as he looked over and saw that America was once more in line. While he wanted to let America go buck wild in the sky, now was just not the time.

They had all, miraculously, decided on a joint plan to push through the enemy forces. The Spanish coast would be bombed to hell and back while infantry with accompanying air support would push through the western border of Ukraine. There had been few fights while concocting the plan, mainly stemming from Ukraine denying the need for assistance. It was well known within their ranks that, while Belarus and the others were holding fine, Ukraine was being hit hard. Canada had readily agreed, eager to assist the woman.

"_I can't fucking wait_."

"I know, Al, I know. Keep the connection clear, we're almost there."

"_Yes, mom_," America grinned. "_Want me to check in on Russia and them_?"

"Yea, go for it," Canada answered.

He had to smother a bout of laughter worming its way up from his throat. Of course America would think to check in on Russia of all people. He really saw no need and, while they should have been keeping all the air waves clean for the moment, he would allow America just a little more leverage. After all, what could possibly happen?

"Hey, big guy, you dead yet?" America asked cheerfully, looking over the side of the F-15 Strike Eagle to get a look at the ground. Flat lands and nothing else: peaceful, serene. "Shit, you should have come with us. Belarus could've led the ground assault, you know."

"_Are you worrying over me, America? I am touched_," Russia answered. There was a sort of playful quality to his voice, a sardonic kind of innocent hate. "_How much longer?_"

"Not much. Once we clear you guys, Canada'll take the bombers and some fighters and go to Chisinau and Iaşi. I'll stay back here," the American answered carelessly. He was completely relaxed in his seat, uncaring and almost bored even as his heart hammered and his face began to ache from smiling. "Just like planned, no worries."

"_Your 'no worries' mean trouble, America._" Russia laughed, leaning back against the T-90 tank.

"Whatever man," America laughed too. "Well, gotta cut this short, babe. Canada wants silence."

"_Ah, then I will speak to you later, da_?"

"Da, ya dumbass."

A last laugh and America cut off the conversation, letting only static prevail. Soon, so very soon, all hell would break loose. He was excited; he was thrilled. He was terrified. That fear only served to further fuel the pure adrenaline slowly flooding his veins. The chemical was choking out any uneasiness as his hands stopped their shaking and he planted himself more firmly.

The fight really came just as the adrenaline began wearing off in America's system. Canada had already broken off towards the designated drop sights, leading a large chunk of the aerial force westward. America signaled for those left to circle with him as they waited for the ground battle to commence before they dropped down and began the assault.

They came from nowhere, descending quickly and opening fire. It was a cloud of Mirages and Panavia Tornadoes, moving swiftly and already breaking up the carefully formed lines of the American fighters. America growled, pulling hard to the right as a Mirage came out from the cloud coverage. America cursed.

"Fuck you guys," he seethed.

For a moment, his world seemed to slow as America let in a breath and slowly blew it out. Sure, he loved pulling out a gun and blowing an enemy's head off, but aerial superiority wasn't nearly as easily attained. It took skill, concentration, and quick wits: things America generally lacked in day to day activities. When he was up in the air though, there was no one better. Least, in America's mind, that's what he liked to fancy.

He barked a few orders to the others. Break formation, engage enemies. Fire at will. Then he began to follow his own instructions as he pulled to the left and entered the center of the fray, unafraid and ready to do some damage. He could only hope Russia would be fine on the ground while he rid the skies of just a few gnats.

The analogy made him snicker as he opened fire with the cannon and knocked a Mirage out of the sky. The thing went down in flames, quickly diving to the fields below. America pressed on, going in for one of the Tornadoes when a sickening jolt nearly had him face first in the control panel. A quick check and, sure enough, there was already a Tornado on his rear.

Memories of decades past came to mind. World War II had been his favorite, by far. The dogfights had been intense and action packed, everything he craved from watching all those Hollywood movies. While the popularity of dogfights in war had waned, he never stopped wishing for another real dogfight. Not just the mock training sessions sort: the real deal. And here some British pilot was giving him the chance.

"Oh hell yes," America purred, pushing the jet to go faster, faster, higher, higher.

The Tornado followed, keeping in close even as America pulled his own jet up and up and up. Higher, higher. America secured the oxygen mask tightly, having let it hang loose recklessly before. The air was getting thinner, getting harder to breathe. Higher, higher, higher.

The fire fight became a deadly game of chicken. America weaved, making himself a difficult target as he continued to climb upward. He was nearing the edge of the safe flying altitude range. Higher. He knew he should stop. If he kept going, things would get exponentially more dangerous, fighter on his tail or not. America couldn't find the will to care. _Higher_.

The Tornado began to pull away, quickly turning. America watched and followed suit, literally giggling in the cockpit as he began a quick descend to close the gap. He never chickened out.

"You lack balls, dude," America chided, chuckling as he clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

He opened fire with the cannon again, releasing ammunition in quick bursts as he tried to follow the other jet's movements through the air. They twisted and turned, a deadly dance of catch me if you can. America was loving it. The rush of blood droned out all noise, even the roar of the engine, as he quickly caught on to the others movements. He lined up the shot and let out another quick burst, cursing as the other changed its course from the usual pattern and pulled a hard right.

"Not happening."

America followed, quickly catching up once more. Whoever the guy was, he was good. Nearly as good as America. Instead of aiding to the nagging sense of dread and fear and anxiety, it made the nation smile. Smile, smile, smile because this was more fun than he had had in a long while.

The fight continued on, America stubbornly clinging to his role of predator as he chased his prey relentlessly. Along the way, another Tornado had come to the others aid, attempting to shake America off and trap him. The nation could only laugh as he swiftly ducked down and slowed, effectively coming up behind the too close jet. He opened fire and dropped the plane before resuming the chase.

"_Sir! We're taking heavy fire!_"

"So fuckin' keep on them. We need to do some serious ball stomping to help out Russia. Order the others to weave down to the ground assault and drop your bombs then engage the enemy fighters," America commanded coolly, pulling left again.

The line went silence once more, least, he thought it did. He couldn't tell anymore. The roar of the engine, the pounding of his heart, the rhythmic clinking of the cannon. It was all too much. He could feel it moving over him in a wave, crashing down and crushing all coherent thoughts and dulling his senses to anything but the jet before him attempting to escape.

The control stick beneath his gloved fingers was warm, his hand was sweating. The mask was suffocating him, pressing down and making his already too hot body swell with warmth. He yanked the thing off, revealing the insanity fluttering across his features. His eyes were clouded over, now a stormy shade of midnight blue but glinting with something much more than elation and mirth. His mouth curved upward dangerously, revealing rows of white as his lips were pulled thin and cheeks ached from being stretched for so long.

His chest heaved. His nostrils flared. He landed a hit.

The Tornado dipped to the left dangerously, the wing slowly being consumed by flames as the jet continued its downward slope. America followed, unrelenting. He fired again, taking out the right wing before he pushed faster and came up just behind the other jet before firing again and taking off the tail. He threw his head back and laughed, reveling in the fact that he had won.

In a mocking gesture, America pressed his Eagle forward, just above other jet, as he looked over into the cockpit. He stared down. The other pilot stared up.

"England."

The Brit flashed the bird before directing his attention back towards the instruments within his plane. His hands worked frantically, trying to pull the jet out of the leftward slant and level out. He was failing horribly as the plane continued to dive down dangerously. England was screaming curses, mainly at America, as he seethed and attempted to salvage his aircraft.

America had already pulled away when England looked up again. The nation had gone to rejoin the fire fight before diving down and releasing several bombs on the rear of the enemy forces.

America was laughing and couldn't stop. There was no way he could stem his laughter and keep it from bubbling up across his lips. His arms were shaking, hands clutching the control stick as he tried to remain in control. He laughed and laughed. How could he not have seen it before? No one else could have survived a dogfight with him that long, no one unless they were England. But England had lost and now he was, hell, America didn't even know where the jet went. He assumed it crash landed into the field just as the Mirage he just shot down would.

Whatever, he couldn't find the will to care. The way England had looked at him in those short few moments, the hate, the loathing, the utter contempt. It made him laugh. He couldn't stop. The distaste. The disgust. The humiliation. He had embarrassed England again. God, did it feel good too.

Somehow, he composed himself and returned to the fire fight, finding it much more mundane than the earlier confrontation between he and England. Two more Mirages and a Tornado. The sky was quickly clearing as jets engaged one another. From what he could see, his men had taken heavy losses as well but as far as he saw, England's forces were dealing with much worse.

"_Come on boys, we're fuckin' Americans! Lay these European ladies out!_"

There were a few whoops responding to America's out burst. It made him proud. His boys were fighting well and even the few of Canada's were fairing well so far as he could tell. The fight wasn't looking too horribly bad.

America dropped down again to release the last of his bombs, aiming for the tanks and heavy artillery pieces below. Another metal clink sounded as he watched a hole get ripped through the bottom of the cockpit. The bullet cracked the glass of the windshield above before exiting. The nation cursed again, pulling away from the ground with ease. He secured the mask once more as he found his way back into the fray and opened fire mercilessly. After all, they had damaged his precious little Strike Eagle. No one harmed America's jet.

He emptied the last of his ammunition into the cockpit of a Mirage before finally pulling away from the fight. Over the air waves came other voices, those of his men, as they relayed details of the waning fire fight. Most were out of ammunition but still pressing forward, unwilling to let the enemy in on that little secret. All had dropped what bombs they had and it seemed the enemy jets were beginning to pull away.

America ordered his men to pull back and allow the enemy to retreat if their ammunition was exhausted. He told them to return to flying altitude and head back to Kiev for some well earned rest. A few sounded overly pleased as they began to circle in the air till the enemy jets disappeared into the cloud line once more. Soon they gathered into formation once more, gaps quickly closed by those left. America lead them back across the Ukrainian border before giving command to another pilot.

He pulled back, turning over and flipping upright once more as he went back towards the battle. He set the jet down on a stretch of barren land just outside Chisinau. He hopped from the plane, yanking the mask off as he grabbed up his M-4 Carbine from the cockpit and took off towards the city. The sounds of battle raged on far ahead and he was dubious that he could make it before things were wrapped up. The radio at his side sprang to life.

"_I am sorely disappointed with you, America_," Russia growled out.

There were screams from behind Russia, the sound of gunfire, his own heavy breathing. America laughed and pulled the radio out, replying lightly, "Yea, totally my fault. Just chill the fuck out. I'll radio in another division to come help. Hold on."

"_You had better_."

The line went dead once more and America slipped the little device to his waist once more, going at a steady run as he neared the city. Just on the out skirts of the town lay the burning wreckage of another plane. He recognized the design and laughed once more; it was a Tornado. Given the utter ruin the jet was in, he guessed whoever had been inside was long dead.

"Good riddance," he breathed.

He pulled out the radio once more, holding it close to his mouth as he tried to gain control over his breathing as he called out, "Canada. You read?"

Silence. Static. Screeching.

"_Yea, I'm here, Al. We're on our way back. Ran into some nasty fire_."

America snorted, "Yea, same here. If you guys got anything left, unload it on a ground assault. Russia's in need of a little help."

"_Can do, see you soon, bro_."

He didn't bother saying good bye. America hooked the radio to his side once more, running past the jet wreckage. He went into the city, finding bodies crowded on the streets and streams of red running into the gutter. The air was heavy with the scent of copper and iron. He rather liked the smell. Nothing like a city of corpses to remind a guy he was alive. Besides the intense rush the sight provoked, it at least meant Russia was making progress and pushing the enemy forces back. America didn't take into account how many of their own men were scattered about the streets.

**A/N: Oh my god, I am sorry if this is suck fail. But holy shit. It's so hot. I can't think, seriously. The heat and humidity here has thoroughly killed my brain and any semblance of intelligent thought. That is all. Well, that and I suck at fight scenes and know nearly nothing about the above things. Wikipedia became my friend quickly. Read, review, sorry for the lack of sex.**


	5. Chapter 5

This wasn't what he expected. Sure, America had expected a fierce opposition but nothing like this. Artillery exploded over head and guns fired wildly. Somehow, organization and the chain of command had been broken in the onslaught. Men and women screamed and a multitude of languages fought for supremacy with the all consuming clatter of war.

The West Europeans were retreating, tripping over their own mines hastily. The retreat was not a peaceful thing. Both sides were still fighting furiously, intent on wreaking as much damage as possible before either side fled too far for further combat. The air reeked of freshly shed blood and the sky shined a brilliant tint of baby blue.

Careful to keep low, America made his way to the front or as close as he could. Somewhere ahead, tanks rumbled darkly and shrapnel cascaded hap hazardously. He wanted to find Russia but there were more pressing matters to attend to. One of the like, not getting shot by the retreating forces.

America cursed under his breath before crawling to the rise of a little hill not far off. Cautiously, he glanced over the top. More carnage, more combat, more _excitement_. He knew there was something wrong with the way his heart sped, hands shook, and entire body pulsed. The feeling wasn't entirely fear; the fear gnawing away at his insides was nearly eclipsed by something strong, something more potent. He smiled.

He fired off a few shots in succession before scootching down the hill for a moment. The gun felt entirely too hot as he clutched the metal to his chest. There was something intoxicating about the radiating heat, though. Modern yet primal. A new way to further the circle of life, an invention meant to infinitely fuel an age-old proverb: survival of the fittest. America closed his eyes for a moment and inhaled. He tasted blood and felt the searing heat in his palms as he popped up again to continue firing, still smiling.

Instead of an open field with soldiers ripe for the picking, America received the butt of a rifle to the jaw. He yelped and fell to the side of the hill, careful to still stay behind cover. In one fluid motion, he struck out with his own weapon and jabbed the butt of his own gun into the impromptu attack's shin.

"_Merde_!"

America's gaze snapped up as France ducked and took over the right side of the hillside. For a moment, the man's face had been pinched but now he looked calm and almost graceful. Quickly, America raised his gun just as France raised his rifle. The two remained firm, grips sure and fingers poised over triggers.

"Hey, France," America greeted pleasantly. His lips were still curved upward, but all joy was drained from the gesture. "Haven't seen you since the Boston bombings."

"You'll have to excuse me, I've been quite busy, America," France returned easily.

America shrugged just as his hand twitched. Tension flared and seeped out from between them, suffocating. For a moment, France's eyes narrowed. Neither said a word from there, neither knowing just what to say. After all, what could there be to say? Other than useless, snarky banter, there could be no possible semblance of traditional, pleasant conversation. America figured he would try anyway.

"I'm sure. So, anyway, send my regards to England when you find him."

The American cocked his head, eyes slipping shut for a moment. The gesture seemed almost carefree. It was mocking. France chuckled nonetheless, gun shifting in his hands as he settled more comfortably onto the grass. America followed suit. It didn't look like the stalemate would let up any time soon.

"When I find him?" France quirked a brow; barely concealed mirth danced across his features. "Whatever do you mean?"

America shrugged again while working a leg underneath his bottom, "Prick got a lesson in new school dog fighting is all."

Another chuckle, "Ah, well. I'm sure that won't be necessary."

"I'm not sure," America replied smugly. He couldn't help the grin creeping up.

Whatever France began to retort was drown out by the thunderous crashing of bombs dropping close-by. The din did not last terribly long, but the quakes following rippled throughout the earth long after. America had to fight to keep his guns steady as he body rode out the worst of it. He laughed, reaffirming his grip before settling into a lounging position.

"_Hey, Al, we're done here and going back to base to land_."

America kept his gun raised with his finger just lightly pressing against the trigger as his other hand reached down for the radio clipped to his side. Bringing the little device up, he locked gazes with France and replied, "Thank, bro, you're a _doll_." He replaced the radio before resuming his previous position. "Here that? You guys have fuckin' lost so bad and I love it."

France laughed in return. He seemed almost thoughtful as he just stared at America, lids lowered and knowing smile softly touching his lips. One nod, "You look so comfortable, America. You would do better to be on guard."

"And why's tha-"

"_Pull out of there soon, Al_."

A light scowl worked its way to America's face as he brought the radio back up to his lips. He pressed the call button and opened his mouth to tell Canada not to worry, that he was fine, check on Ukraine and Belarus, anyone else that actually needed the concern. It would have been a haughty, arrogant thing to say, but the words never left America's lips as he surged forward, pain jarring his thoughts and spreading from the back of his skull. Black then green, America groaned and quickly attempted to sit back up and raise his weapon once more. A weight between the blades of his shoulder kept him pinned down and immobile while the gun in his hand was roughly kicked away.

"_Al! Are you alright? What the hell was that?_"

The radio lay beside his head but a foot on either arm kept him from reaching out. America had once again jumped the gun and now he was pinned to some god forsaken piece of land.

"Fantastic," America snarled, body twisting violently as he thrashed to get free. The barrel of a gun was pressed to the base of his head, further pinning him as he stilled. "Fuck you," he hissed in retaliation.

"Such language, lad. Watch your tongue."

Shit repeatedly traversed America's mind. Apparently, he hadn't done enough to damage to knock England out for long enough or to send the Englishman's plane crashing far enough away. He recognized the voice above, at the other end of the barrel, and growled at the tone. It was like chiding a child, something he had heard many times when young.

"Make me," America returned, attempting to wriggle one arm free.

"_Non_, America." France clicked his tongue disapprovingly from over head. He smashed the heel of his boot into America's forearm, placing nearly enough pressure to snap the bone.

America would not allow himself to cry out. He had suffered worse. A broken bone would make no difference and the pain was manageable. He tried again, this time the other arm. This time, the boot keeping his arm down did press with enough force. The bone snapped and America buried his face into the grass. It smelled like dirt and nature. At such close range, the purely comforting scent was not marred by the stench of blood. He bit his lip, to keep back a groan, as the boot pushed down further before completely removing itself. There was no way he could move his arm.

"I didn't appreciate our recent encounter," England began.

"Good!" America cut in quickly.

Oh, how America wanted to turn over and just nail England with a low blow. Anything to knock the nation down a few pegs so that condescending tone would vanish. He couldn't stand that tone, the implication that he was a mindless brat. His blood boiled and rage began to build within the pit of his stomach.

The barrel slammed down onto his neck, "Shut up, America. You'd do well to keep your bloody mouth shut right now."

"As would you, _England_."

"Drop the guns."

America could have cried. Even with the deafening roar on conflict still echoing through the chilling air and face still pressed into the ground, he could place the new duo. Russia and North Korea. The irony was lost on him. At one point, he had hated both and was hated in return. Now, they were saving him from a rather unpleasant bullet in the head and verbal reprimation. He laughed ruefully.

Silence reigned between the gathered group. Animosity was rising and the once at ease air of France and England quickly fled. He could feel the boot in his back shift nervously, barrel rising up and away. The gunfire and abundance of noise once present began to fade and America found himself grinning despite his position on the ground. After all, the operation had succeeded, France and England needed to retreat or face capture, and he was going to be lucky enough to walk away with a broken arm. The injury would heal soon enough, a few days at most. The situation was nearly enjoyable, if only it weren't for the discovery of his rather compromising position. America would get shit about it later.

"Drop them!" North Korea ordered once more.

She stood behind France, pistol raised and hanging dangerously close to the man's back. Her voice was all authority, all dominance and confidence and power. Somehow, she exuded a composed aura despite the poor shape of her uniform. Onyx met emerald and violet met blue at the peak of the stand off's constricting anxiety. No gun clattered to the ground.

"Here's a deal," England replied coldly, eyes narrowing as he fixed the woman with a venomous stare, "I won't shoot the lad and you let us retreat."

"For god's sake, just do it!" America put in. He didn't particularly feel like being shot, especially in the head, and knew full well that North Korea would hardly bat a lash if it were to happen. They were now allies but the ill will had never fled. "Don't be a bitch."

"Agreed," Russia put in; his gun hovering between England's shoulders.

The Brit nodded and France conceded with a languid roll of his shoulders as both raised their guns and turned to line their sights on the two standing nations. Hesitantly, with unwavering care and caution, France and England began a slow backwards trot. They were careful to work their way around the bodies and go off into the dense coverage of the forest.

When America heard safeties clicking, he pushed himself up from the ground. His arm throbbed and head swam, but adrenaline surged within and he found the strength to stand with injured arm cradled close to his body. Russia had reached to assist, only to be swatted away from a smiling America as North Korea watched on. She was just as impassive as Russia seemed.

"_Thanks_."

America's didn't sounded grateful. The words were hissed, sarcastic. It did not phase his allies. Instead, the pair turned their backs with the intent to return to a now old British-French base not far off. America was about to follow when a choked gasp sprang out and he slumped forward. Red began to seep through the material of his uniform from the back of his thigh, lazily dripping down. He sat back, hard, to try and stem the bleeding with his calf.

"_Just_ for you, lad!"

His head twisted to the side painfully, gaze willing the trees to spontaneously combust. Of course England would pull a trick like that. He should have seen it coming and mentally berated himself for letting his guard down momentarily. Really, he should have known better. Honestly, he really should have.

"Shithead," America breathed, glancing up as Russia approached once more.

North Korea hung back, her lips quirking upwards, before she turned and continued on her way. The woman was out of sight quickly. The ring of gunfire was the only thing that followed in her wake as she shot those still trying to cling to life.

Russia kneeled and laid a gentle hand on America's shoulder. A self satisfied smile just barely curled the edges of his mouth and America could do nothing but scowl darkly at the man before him. To America, there was nothing funny about the whole thing, but Russia's falsely caring gestures only spoke of amusement at America's expense. America couldn't stand it so, in a last jolt of energy, he socked Russia none too gently.

The man's head whipped to the side. A hand rose to pop his jaw back into place with a sickening snap before that smile was back and Russia was holstering his rifle. There were no words as he slipped a hand under America and uncurled the nation for more comfortable carrying. The wound on the back of America's thigh bled lazily, barely repressed by the press of Russia's arm. He couldn't particularly find the will to care. Soon enough, the wound would close, the aching within his skull would flee, and he would beat Russia senseless till he was put down. Nothing short of ordinary.

**A/N: Holy ffff-, sorry for the horrendously long wait. I was having editor issues, so, yea. I slipped down my list to third choice, so sorry if anything messed up, sounds funny, things are mixed, etc. And dear, sweet Jesus lord, I'm sorry this chapter sucks so much. Honestly, my brain died and. . . Well, I don't know where it went. But I may rewrite this or at least make the next one better. That's about all I've to say, so, read, review. Do it to it.**


	6. Chapter 6

Anyone who didn't like getting their ego fed was just not okay with America. Simple as that. He drank the attention in, reveled in it, basking. The feeling was entirely too intoxicating. After returning to the newly formed base in liberated Kiev, Ukraine had set right into thanking him help. The praise didn't last particularly long, considering the woman moved on to thank Canada shortly after, but it had been enough to inflate his ego. While Belarus hadn't offered up any thanks, at least the girl hadn't been toying with a knife and fixing him with the 'Oh, I am so going to shank you when your back is turned' look. That was enough for his narcissism.

Now was not the time for those thoughts. He had a Russian below him who was quite intent on dragging some sort of pleased keen from him and was giving it a damn good try. Persistent and sure hands were running along the plains of his back, spreading out and digging into the flesh, as Russia's mouth nip, bite, and sucked at the soft flesh of America's throat. Their hips were rocking, the friction feeling blissfully wonderful through the material of their military trousers.

There was still a nagging thought and his own stubbornness that kept him from releasing the breaths of enjoyment hanging on the tip of his tongue. In one fluid motion, America pulled himself up and away from a moment, hands braced beside Russia's head, though he was careful to put little weight on the still healing limb. There was a knowing and smug smirk plastered across his lips.

"So tell me, what happens when we win this war?"

He had guesses as to what would happen. Undoubtedly, North Korea would turn on him and they would engage in further war. What he wasn't terribly sure of, was whether Russia would take the same path. The relationship they shared was one of less than pleasant history and an uncertain future where only the barest of threads kept them twined together. At times, America liked to fancy that he could feel that thread, so thin and a vibrant red, laced around their arms and pulling tight, constricting. Moments like these, he could almost feel that thread creep up and loop around his throat and see it moving in a similar manner on Russia.

So, what would happen? When the war ended, would Russia declare war as well? It would be an opportune moment. Most of the once nations were now gone, leaving only the strongest in its wake: France, England, and them. With France and England gone, the number of those willing and able to fight diminished, leaving the world as a sort of hunting prize just waiting to be carved up and devoured. With the attacks on his shores and Mexico's constant and powerful presence at the southern border, America couldn't deny that he would at least be a little vulnerable from another attack on his own shores.

If North Korea and Russia banded, and Russia no doubt bringing along his sisters for the ride, America wasn't so sure he best both of them. There was something, an unnamable churning, in the pit of his stomach that kept him from accepting that possibility as entirely fact. After all, what of that thread? In his mind's eye, America closed his eyes and created the scenario. He could see the thread around both their throats and another loop dipping down into Russia's chest. There was unbearable pressure, pain, paralysis.

"We will rebuild what has been leveled."

America nodded at Russia's words. Opening his eyes and leaning down, he traced the dull throb of his bedmate's jugular with the tip of his tongue. In his mind, he could see the tread pressing down, threatening to cut off or cut into that all important vein. Somehow, the thought didn't fill him with as much satisfaction as it would have with any other. No doubt because he picture that power wielding thread doing the same thing to him.

Russia did not sound truthful nor did he sound untruthful. It was an odd and weary mix of maybe and perhaps despite the statements assuring contents. America couldn't help but snort as he lowered himself once more so bare chest pressed into bare chest and the heat between the ebbed and flowed like the perpetuating tide.

Those hands once playing across his back became more confident, curious, as they slipped down to his lower back and further yet to roughly grasp him bum. America bit his lip, unwilling to allow Russia the satisfaction of drawing any noise from him. It was always this way or almost always there. There were always those rare times when both parties would give themselves over, crying out and screaming with no care or second thought. Those times were very rare.

"You mean after you and North Korea own my ass?" he questioned breathlessly, letting his own hands worm between their bodies so he could better explore the contours of Russia's body.

"Da." Russia smiled softly.

Again, it did not sound like the truth or a lie, just a maybe, just a perhaps.

For a moment, any retort he would have liked to give was pushed from America's mind as a deft hand snaked around his waist to the front of his pants. The button snapped and zipper descended downward. America couldn't help but tip his head back as Russia's hand went beneath the hem of his pants and began to palm him through the thin cotton of his boxer shorts.

"I can just imagine how excited you'd be to be the one sleeping in the White House," America's adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, "and me as your little maid bitch."

Russia chuckled and stilled his hand, pulling it free. America would have protested had it not been for the quick tug on both his remaining garments. The implications were not lost on him. He pulled back once more, sitting just above Russia's hips, as he took over and wriggled both his trousers and undergarments off. Being put on display and having a hungry, violet gaze roaming the troves of his body didn't bother America. He loved it.

The moment did not last horridly long, though. America's hands found their way to Russia's pants and his fingers clumsily worked on the buttons. Silently, he cursed the Russian military uniform and its lack of easier access. At least once the buttons were undone, Russia made it easier as he lifted his hips, need meeting need in a second of bliss, as America slide the garments down with hasty jerks.

There was no hesitation, no pause, when America settled just above Russia. With eyes half lidded and teeth revealed in a confident grin, America lowered himself down. There was pain; it burned. The look upon Russia's face as his head tipped against the cot and screwed his eyes shut, mouth slightly agap, was enough to quell the uprising protest in America's backside.

This had always been his favorite part. Foreplay be damned, America was too impatient for such teasing. He enjoyed the nitty gritty of it all, the raw turnover as the power shifted his way and it became his turn to attempt making Russia into a pile of mewling goo. All too well, he knew what Russia must have been feeling: intense heat, unrelenting tightness, unforgiving ecstasy at being buried inside down to the hilt.

Much like a cat, satisfied with cornering its prey, America gazed down at Russia as he moved his hips from side to side and watched as the other man's brows knit together, breathless gasp leaving pale lips. America continued rolling his hips at a lazy pace, willing his body to sink lower yet till their bodies were yet again flush. The teasing was not enough for Russia, America knew.

Hands that had once been lying idly at America's sides slide down to his hips, easily lifting the other nation up and bringing him down once more. The grip was bruising and another wave of pain shot through America as he looked away from Russia's face, head tipping back as he arched and sank down further. The small cue given was enough for him to get the message. He knew what Russia wanted: quick, brutal, hard. America wouldn't give the nation that satisfaction, that power. Instead, he beat out Russia's determined hold and set his own pace. It was horribly slow as he rose, nearly pulling away completely, before he rolled his hips downward and impaled himself once more.

"Such would not suit you, America."

America had to pause, wondering just what Russia was talking about. Their previous conversation clicked and he continued the pace easily, choosing to bury his face in the crook of Russia's shoulder.

"No shit."

Eventually, his own slow rhythm was not. He would be loathe to admit it, but Russia drove him insane. Always had. There was no question about it and, though he denied it to everyone and himself, the fact was plain to see. Somehow, they were tethered, constantly forced to dance about one another. It was sickening and enthralling. It was consuming.

His hips sped, moving at a more steady pace than before as he slowly lifted himself up. Russia responded by pushing his own hips up, meeting each of America's in time. When America sat up, back arched, and went faster yet, Russia followed suit. The hands upon his hips aided America by pulling him down roughly each time.

There was nothing gentle in this. The act was pure need. It was not love making. Never that. Always fucking. Plain, unadulterated fucking with emotions set at the wayside if ever there were any. America could think of the act they were committing in the abandoned medical tent as anything but. The idea of putting any other name to their bedroom romps made his stomach knot unpleasantly and lips curl into a sneer. This was fucking and nothing more. Animal instinct, unavoidable.

"America."

He almost didn't catch the whisper. His mind was fuzzy and thoughts utterly scrambled. He even thought he had imagined it, that some sick part of his mind was creating illusions that Russia would say his name during sex. They never said each other's names: ever. It was an unspoken rule. Names were too intimate, too real. America was fully intent on ignoring what he had heard till his name echoed out against the noise of flesh meeting flesh. He couldn't deny that Russia had said it that time.

America refused to acknowledge it. Instead, in retaliation, he quickened further till the pace was painfully fast and agonizingly hard. Again and again he drove Russia into his body with the other gladly helping as both lost themselves completely. America's toes curled with the oncoming release and he could deny the ache between his spread legs any further. Without skipping a beat, he reached out and grasped himself, stroking in time as he attempted to control his strength while still riding Russia into the mattress.

His efforts paid off as his body momentarily seized, spine curling outward as his head snapped backward and warmth flooded the palm of his hand. Russia soon followed suit, yanking America down and burying himself as deeply as possible before he released with a barely restrained groan.

The pair panted, chests heaving as they stilled and tried to recollect any sort of coherent thought. Such a task was difficult, but eventually America found enough wits about himself to heave himself up and off Russia. As he went to stand, his legs wobbled dangerously, but, stubborn as ever, he pressed on and went to the far side of the tent. The trek was entirely too long for America's spent body.

The nation carefully knelt down beside a stack of towels and with practiced ease; he began the process of wiping himself off.

"Are you not going to give me one as well?" Russia questioned from the bed.

He had pushed himself off, now reclining on his elbows as he pinned America with a smug little smile. America looked over his shoulder, grabbing another towel to wipe the sweat from his brow and shoulders. He snorted and looked away once more.

"Go fuck yourself."

Childlike laughter floated through the stilted air. Pure amusement rang out as Russia grabbed America's abandoned undershirt and wiped himself clean, "Why would I do that when I have you around, America?"

**A/N: So, my brain is fried. Not from writing. That US vs. Slovenia match. Talk about bullshit, that ref needs to lay off the mary jane, js. Anyway, sex, whoo. Not much to really say. Same editor as before, so excuse over looked mistakes. She's just my friend and doing it willing to I'm not going to jump her balls about being extremely thorough. So, uhhh, read, review, be happy. Idk.**


	7. Chapter 7

Progress had been sluggish at best. All afternoon, America had sat waiting, waiting, waiting for a response from Cuba, of all people. Just the thought made his stomach churn. What was he to expect when the most unlikely of alliances were made? If he could stand Belarus and North Korea of all women, relying on Cuba had to be the least of his worries.

His cell phone chimed, the American national anthem blaring out proudly. No warmth blossomed as he listened to it for a moment before flipping the device open. Pressing the plastic against his ear, America abandoned all polite mannerisms as he asked dryly, "Anything change?"

A laugh rung out on the other end, condescending and cocky, "Of course! Mexico's been put in her place. I give it a week before me and the Central America guys completely overtake her."

"Fantastic," America allowed.

He shut the phone, unwilling to continue the conversation. The information he had been waiting for had been received and that was that. Without Mexico constantly starting skirmishes across his border, the efforts of his men could be focused on the real monster under the bed: Europe. Relieving Ukraine had been a bloody affair and little ground had been recovered since that fateful push westward from Russia. England and France were fighting furiously despite the rumors of their crumbling alliance.

The parallels between the opposing sides were unmistakable and brought a laugh to his lips. France and England pairing up, who would have thought? The notion seemed ridiculous but the ever changing flow of history seemed to prove the impossible. After all, hadn't he aligned with Russia and a few other unsavory characters? Whether the circumstances were the same or not, America couldn't help but dwell on the irony. If he could get chummy enough to fight a war with North Korea and Cuba, it didn't seem so unbelievable for England and France to join together.

Russia glanced over to his partner, saying nothing but understanding. He didn't enjoy war, not really. The bloodshed brought back nightmarish memories and made his skin crawl but war was necessary, war was _human_. They were nations, but they were human. It was an unsolvable paradox, leading to nothing but headaches and unanswered inquiries. They were nations, driven by the people's will. They were the people, adversely affecting their citizens. The line between the two was marred and blurred, leaving only the faintest of glows and etching out no universally understood truth.

America looked over to Russia, still laughing and smiling, cradling a rifle to his chest. The two were gathered in a make-shift tent, two cots spread on either side. The dwelling was not permanent by any means, only a place to rest before another push forward would be made. Their eyes were set on taking Warsaw and Bucharest. It would be an audacious move, too much land in too little time, but it was America's brain child and, with the nation's teetering sanity, no one quite felt like arguing with him. There were murmured protests, behind the back insults, and scathing whispers; though, all were ignored in favor of blissful ignorance and a childish need for his own plan to succeed. Such was what this had become, what the war had boiled everyone down to.

"Care to let me in on the joke?" Russia asked, amused. His lips quirked upward, just praying for an insane answer from a slowly maddening man. The tables had turned and all things were twisted; he loved it.

The nation looked over from his cot in the corner and set his rifle aside, "Thinking of France and England and how much we're like them."

Russia's amusement fell as he mulled over that statement. It certainly wasn't a comparison he had ever acknowledged. He and America seemed worlds apart from the other pair. Now that he really began to think, head lowering as he set aside his own rifle, maybe they weren't so different. There were a few similarities he could pick up on but any further thought on the idea was cut off by the roaming thought that America had come up with something intellectual and deep before he did. That bothered him.

When Russia looked over to his companion, there was a tense and uncomfortable upwards slant of Russia's lips, "In what ways?"

For a moment, America couldn't decide if Russia was mocking him or not. His eyes narrowed as he leaned back onto his hands, legs crossed at the ankle and stretched out before him. Mocking or not, the thought was bugging him, "Well, they used to fight too. Serious, war type of fighting. Then were kinda friends but still play fought, right? Something like that. I can't even remember. Nevermind."

America cocked his head and looked over to Russia, face rather thoughtful and fully intent on going on despite his moments ago dismissal of the subject, "I guess what I'm getting at, is you and I hate each other and fight a shit ton, but we're still fucking and working together, right? I bet it's the same with England and France. Everyone else in this war just got pulled into the crazy by us big shots."

"You," Russia blinked, "said something worthwhile."

That gentle, contemplative look left America's face as the nation huffed and sat straight once more. His legs came in and curled beneath him as America reached to a bag beside his cot. A map of the world began to unfold as both parties cramped in the tent expertly ignored their earlier conversation and, for them, light interaction. Together, things like friendliness and normality just weren't possible. Everyone knew Russia was nuts; everyone knew Russia brought out the crazy in America. They were a couple of loons engaging in something neither of them quite understood but accepted as generally unpleasant and unkind.

"Fuck you, see if you get any tonight," America seethed, not bothering to look Russia's way but beckoning the man with a lazy wave of his hand. "Get your fat ass over here so we can go over some shit."

"You're one to talk," the nation fired back calmly, scooting onto America's cot to look over the map.

America snorted, "More to love."

The banter ceased between them, leading instead to a drone of military strategy and wants of their generals. Disagreements flourished, Russia openly opposing their next attack. His point was disregarded as America produced a pen and began to mark up the already scribbled upon piece of paper. Midway through a rant, Russia stole the pen and began to draw out his own opinion, disregarding America's choice words and violent attempts to take back the writing utensil.

* * *

**A/N: There's a reason this chapter is so short. It's because I'm jumping ship on this story. I've hit a huge wall with it and can't scrounge up enough oomf to ever write on it. To be honest, it was supposed to be a one shot. After all the attention it got and what not, I figured I would give it a go to make it a multi-chapter fic. Obviously, that hasn't worked out. I've just lost interest in this project and would rather tell everyone I'm dropping it rather than just never updating again. So, I give you what little I did get done. Maybe, some time in the future, I'll pick this back up. Highly unlikely, but all the same. I've just got a lot of other projects in the works and don't have time for things I don't feel passionate or compelled to write on. I'm really sorry guys. : C**

**I sincerely, from the bottom of my heart, thank all of you who've read, reviewed, favorited, altered, all that good stuff. You're the reason I chose to continue the story in the first place and I'm truly sorry I'm just abandoning it on you guys. Don't hate me too much? Prease? If you enjoyed this story or want to look up some of my other stuff, I'll be updating my profile with information on on-going works and works in the planning stage. But, again, sorry to be leaving this one. OTL  
**


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